


something about hands

by panini1995



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: BOKUTO CAMEO ONLY SORRY, Could be friendship - Freeform, F/M, Hands Hands Hands, could be romance, komori cameo because i love komori, sakusa being sentimental, sakusa is having fun with volleyball he loves it, sakusa is soft but won't admit it, start of something new ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25591771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panini1995/pseuds/panini1995
Summary: “Okay?” You asked. There was a slight edge to your voice that didn’t quite sound worried but still seemed to care very much about how he felt with certain objects touching his skin. His eyes found yours. He realized, at that moment, that you seemed like the kind of person who would say ‘cool’ countless times and mean it each time; he thought there was something very honest about it, something pure and unpretentious that a part of him couldn’t help but find admirable.He nodded. “Go ahead.”*You never told him your name.
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi & Reader, Sakusa Kiyoomi/Original Female Character(s), Sakusa Kiyoomi/Reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 97





	something about hands

Maybe it was the almost silence that followed her every one-line sentence that made it difficult for him to fully ignore the exposed wound on his right palm. Or simply the now growing pain along with it, of course. Kiyoomi wasn’t really one to engage in small talk—save for the polite nodding and the occasional _Hmm’s_ because he’s not a total ass—and if small talks were designed to divert someone’s attention from the slow passage of time, then whatever she’s attempting at was obviously not working. He had been sitting in Fukurodani Academy’s clean, well-lit infirmary for a good ten minutes now and the cut across his palm wasn’t going anywhere. The worry lines now seemed more permanently etched on the girl’s forehead, and he had wondered whether her third _Please be patient for just a little bit longer, one of our first-aiders is gonna be here real soon,_ was more for her and her nerves than anybody else in the room (primarily him, if there wasn’t any other unseen force or trapped soul of sorts in the room to make the air this chilly). The moment she started pacing around was when Kiyoomi felt the irksome restlessness in him rise up a notch just a teeny tiny bit; he couldn’t tell whether the worry was due to his wound or this person’s down-turned expression, the feeling of helplessness in the air.

Weren’t first-aiders supposed to _not_ make it obvious when something was wrong? And isn’t there supposed to be a nurse maybe? As a visiting player, though, he only kept his mouth shut and waited a little more patiently.

Kiyoomi heard you first before he saw you, or heard the slight commotion that you caused, more like it. In a quick succession of lumbering movements, you had kicked the door open with one foot, obviously much stronger than you’d intended, sending it banging on the glass cabinet and rattling its contents, and then almost simultaneously turning on your heel—thinking quickly—to keep the door from crashing again, closing it slowly with your toes this time. You turned towards the door for a moment and eyed it like it owed you money. 

“So they fixed the hinges already,” you said to yourself.

There _you_ are, the girl whom he then remembered being called Megumi half-whispered as she walked towards you, relief filling her voice. Though with her standing facing away from him, Sakusa couldn’t tell if she was being sincere and felt real relief. And frankly, from the looks of the little mess you’ve single-handedly made, her tone couldn’t be anything else but sarcastic. What happened to you? she asked after a pause, eyeing your knees and your arms.

“Sorry, got into a little accident on my way here,” you said, placing the heavy box with its unfamiliar contents on the metal table on the far side of the room, the wobbling of which this time inadvertently toppled the stacked paper cups over, some of which you managed to catch while some fell to the floor. You dropped to one knee and quickly picked them up before steadying the objects with your hands, palms turned facing the stacks as if asking them nicely to please, stay still.

That’s fine, I hope _you’re_ fine, but please take care next time, the other girl said, taking the cup from your hand. And you have one patient, she added, smiling genially towards Sakusa, whose pain on his right hand for the moment has dulled, his attention now half-focused on you.

“Oh, where are the other volunteers?” you asked, turning around to slip the first-aider vest over your head. “Did you have to wait long?”

The other two got assigned to the basketball game earlier, it turned out, because apparently the Fukurodani Boys’ basketball was such a rowdy bunch it needed two medics. And besides, she pointed out, Akaashi asked specifically for you. “Might be because I’m the only one he knows by name,” you shrugged even though the other girl wasn’t able to see or probably hear as she finally began exiting the room.

He only felt your head turn to his direction from his peripheral view. Maybe you smiled, he never saw for his eyes were once again fixed on the returning pain on his palm. His bruise stung and, truthfully, his mind was going elsewhere.

He’s thinking of how long he’d been out of the match already, growing more pessimistic by the minute that he wouldn’t be able to make it in time. Not with this gash, he reminded himself. He wouldn’t be surprised if Motoya would sneak in at any moment now to inform him of the outcome. (Really, this match had no bearing anymore whatsoever, yet his cousin understood more than anyone how he’d be totally invested in it no matter what kind of a match it was, either way.)

There wasn’t any commotion when you entered the smaller room by the side of the door this time. If he had some kind of uncanny ability to temporarily detach himself from physical pain, then it seemed correlated to an impairment in his sense of time, of sorts; that is, by the time you’d appeared right in front of him, not taking a seat right away, but only setting the table, five minutes or an hour could have already passed and he wouldn’t have noticed. He simply looked at the neatly wrapped gauze on your right knee—plus, the small patch of plaster around your elbow, and are those strips of bandages on the underside of your left arm? really, what happened to you?—and thought maybe if you fixed those up so neatly yourself then at least he should have no worries with you cleaning up his.

You placed the medicine box with its unfamiliar assortment of bottles and gauze and clean cloth on the table with such care and he reveled on the no-sound of durable surfaces touching. He idly wondered how you managed to move with such economy this time as if you weren’t just clattering everything you touched not even a full five minutes ago. 

The clipboard with the patient’s form attached with its dangling mechanical pen was left untouched on his side, and as if only noticing just now, you grabbed the pen and rotated the board towards you.

“Please write your name in capital letters here, then your date of birth here, and then school…” you said, placing checks beside the blank spaces right before your eyes caught his splayed palm on the table. “Oh,” you mouthed, shooting him a sheepish, apologetic grin, the suddenness of which stopped him from whatever biting remark his now clear-headed brain had already formed. You inched your head to take a closer look.

“I think the bleeding has stopped, at least,” you said without any hint of worry in your voice, before gesturing towards the sinks behind him; that’s right, there were two sinks, and he found a moment to admire this practicality because of course an infirmary would need two faucets.

“Let’s get it cleaned up first, then.” 

You stood on his right and turned his knob on for him before turning on yours. With your own hands under the running water, you demonstrated how to softly press around the not-too deep gash, turning your hand sideways and then up, to loosen any dirt and debris. Using the mild soap available, his hands mirrored the way you brushed your thumb on certain portions of your palm to navigate around the exposed wound, cleaning out any possible leftover debris without getting much of the soap inside. You washed and cleaned your hands for as long as it took him to clean up his, and when you handed him a paper towel he held his palm up in front of your face for inspection, like a polite patient would.

“Good,” you nodded, giving him a thumbs up.

You sat across from each other and you took the clipboard in your hands, filling up the important information yourself. You wrote down his full name and then his school, because you _would_ know. To think that for over three years he’d had countless students and non-students alike come up to him, with their congratulatory remarks, or their gifts, or autograph requests or whatnot, already knowing who he was—Sakusa Kiyoomi of Itachiyama Institute, top high school ace in the nation—that by now he should’ve been used to the constant recognition already. In truth, he felt like it wasn’t something he’d ever get used to, though he didn’t find it overbearing either, just a top school player quirk he never knew what to do with. He didn’t _care,_ and yet when he saw his name written in your hasty penmanship and you turned only to ask for his date of birth, he couldn’t help but assign a certain singularity to this moment, somehow.

“March 20,” he said, tracing the flourish of his written name with his eyes which, frankly, looked like something only you could read. “Ninety-six.”

“Cool,” you said quietly even though there was nothing remotely cool about it.

You quickly finished up the rest of the form before finally setting the clipboard aside. Another thing worth noting was you applying alcohol to your hands once again after touching the pen and the papers. He watched, with your eyes now focused on his bruise, as you rubbed the liquid thoroughly around your fingers until they dried; curiously, you held your entwined hands near your face after, as if inhaling the fresh smell of disinfectant—a habit, he recognized, he himself had also formed without knowing.

Your skin’s first touch was cool from the alcohol but he didn’t flinch away. You didn’t ask permission to touch him either nor did you have to—as you circled your thumb and index finger around his wrist to lift his hand towards you for a closer look, pressing his palm open with your other hand—the way people who knew what they were doing simply went ahead and quietly steered the command, taking people’s faith in them for granted like it’s the most natural thing.

You turned his palm a little this way and that, a look of displeasure forming behind your eyes. “It’s an old wound that reopened,” you said, “a recent one.” 

He didn’t respond to that and it was as good enough a confirmation; he’s only thankful you didn’t ask how he got it because he didn’t want to have to recount something so (relatively) embarrassing. Still, questionable first causes aside, he should’ve known better at least than agreeing to play in the exhibition games in the first place, especially when there was really no need to. A minor, unlikely lapse in his judgment, he’d admit, although Motoya had chalked it up to sentimentality. 

He mulled this over in his head. A good part of him had always understood and seen the value of seeing things to their end, sure. But this time, he couldn’t help that one, rogue feeling of unease in his chest that came along whenever he thought of his last few weeks in high school. The inevitable series of Lasts that he knew he should be able to savor. It was the sudden thought that hit him on a random hour last week that this was going to be the last set of high school matches that he’d be playing with Motoya ever—that at some point in their actual last match, he was going to receive the ball for one last time without him knowing it at that moment, et cetera—that the full realization of the finality of it all had only actually started to sink in. And he didn’t know what to do about it. It wasn’t about missing Motoya (Hiroshima might be several hours away but hell, he knew his cousin would certainly find ways to bug him on any given day somehow). No, Kiyoomi wasn’t being sentimental, not at all; he was good with endings. But then he also found himself indulging in remembering the countless mornings he’d wake up ahead of his alarm and all he’d do was stare at his ceiling for five or ten minutes until his phone went off; or the way the orange light from the setting sun would hit the far corners of the school gym at twilight that signaled the end of the first half of practice; those, along with the nameless small things that had become part of his habits, his rituals, all embedded in his bones and his morning trainings and afternoon train rides.

 _Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read,_ he remembered that one line from a book he’d read as a kid that had stuck with him for years. _One does not love breathing._

How true.

Maybe Motoya was right, after all, maybe that was why Kiyoomi couldn’t come up with something snappy to say back, merely grumbling a _whatever_ along with a withering glare that only his cousin, his best friend, could dare smile at, the smug idiot.

He sighed, almost without knowing. Your hands halted as if out of reflex, fingers folding into themselves like mimosa leaves upon contact, right hand hovering just a few inches away from his open wound holding a ball of cotton.

“Okay?” You asked. There was a slight edge to your voice that didn’t quite sound worried but still seemed to care very much about how he felt with certain objects touching his skin. His eyes found yours. He realized, at that moment, that you were the kind of person who would overuse the word ‘cool’ and still mean it each time; he thought there was something very honest about it, something pure and unpretentious that a part of him couldn’t help but find admirable.

He nodded. “Go ahead.”

Kiyoomi couldn’t remember the last time he needed any sort of stuff applied to his wound but he half-expected it to sting. He also half-expected you to hum, or something, but you simply, quietly dabbed at his wound. Suddenly, he found himself wishing he was very good at small talk because there was really nothing else to do but watch your hands. If you were bothered by people staring while you worked, you didn’t show it. The one time you did look up and caught him concentrating on what you were doing, there was again that smile out of nowhere.

“It’s just antibiotic,” you said in a tone of reassurance. “It’ll keep it from getting infected and also keep the surface moist.”

He didn’t doubt the science behind it so he only quietly hummed in response. But then something else he remembered: “I’m sure I applied something to it, too, but I can’t recall. It didn’t look like ointment, though.” He scrunched his forehead. “And it stung.”

“Ah,” you straightened your back, pausing for a moment to look at him. “That must’ve been hydrogen peroxide. You should never apply hydrogen peroxide—“ your eyes shifted as you quickly recalled some distant first aid lesson, “or rubbing alcohol, or iodine, salt, or baking powder to any wound because they’re actually bad for healing. Like Purell.” The way you said Purell hinted at bad memories and bad decisions and possibly old scabs.

He squinted curiously. “You mean antiseptics?”

You turned your attention back to his hand and spoke without looking up: “Antiseptics may kill bacteria but they also destroy healthy cells. I’m thinking the hydrogen peroxide actually did more harm than good by killing both the ‘good’ healing bacteria along with the ‘bad’ infection-causing ones, delaying the healing process. So that,” you looked up once more, setting your cotton ball aside this time, “plus the fact that you have been spiking real nasty today _as per usual,_ Sakusa-san, was what lead to the wound’s re-opening.”

“Hm,” he nodded in understanding, filing this important information in his memory for safekeeping along with your vague hatred for Purell. You open your mouth as if to add something to that, but you changed your mind, instead,

“Have you been applying hydrogen peroxide to your wounds your whole life?” you sounded almost incredulous as your eyes flitted to his hands and then his arms and then down to his legs as if checking all his skin. “How—“

“No,” he said quickly, pausing your spontaneous survey of his knees, “I mean I wouldn’t. I don’t really get wounded often and badly enough to need treatment, anyway. Last time I remember getting it this bad was…in middle school.” He paused, he remembered now. “The nurse had been the one to treat it and I never had to ask about it. Not usually.”

“Oh,” you nodded slowly, either in awe or in disbelief, he wasn’t sure. “That’s pretty amazing.” He shrugged.

“I’ve been very careful.”

Your hands went on to reach for the bandage and the scissors. Inside a smaller compartment in the depths of the medicine box, you found a set of binding clips and a roll of adhesive tape along with it.

“That’s it, bandage already?” he asked.

“Yup.”

“Nothing to make the wound heal faster,” he said under his breath, looking at the far wall. He knew there was no such thing, but a boy could idly wonder.

“Ah, well.” You considered this, and he gave you a moment of no interruption because you knew a lot about wounds and had an answer to almost anything related to them somehow, he thought bemusedly. “I guess the antibiotic cream is the closest you’ll get to something like that, although it actually doesn’t make the wound heal faster per se, but since it keeps infection from happening so then it helps in your body’s natural healing process. And also this way the wound stays moist, so it wouldn’t form any crusty scab.”

He was actually, genuinely impressed, but then he frowned at your last word: “Scabs.”

“Yes, scabs.” Your voice sounded grave. “You don’t want them.”

You cut out a 2-3 inch wide strip and placed the adhesive tape close. The first thing you did was place his hand palm up, placing the end of the bandage on the inside of his wrist and then wrapping it around it twice. Turning his hand palm down this time, you bring the bandage diagonally across the back of his hand so the upper edge ends just under the bend of his pinky. Slowly, you take the wrapping across the ring, middle, and then index finger, making sure to leave the fingertips exposed. Once again, you fold it diagonally across but to the outside and then back this time, completing the figure 8 around his hand. You repeat this figure 8 step wrapping and only pause about three times to make sure the bandage didn’t bunch up unequally.

Something about watching the sure slowness of this process felt soothing, reassuring even, the repetitive, measured movements growing on him like a mantra. He thought he could memorize the callused spots of your fingers just by feel. Everything had clattered upon your touch when you came into the room, but he felt that your hands, while callused in places, were also soft in others, and they were now warm and dry as they held his. He no longer felt the chill in the room. 

You make him hold the tip of the bandage with his other hand while you got the adhesive tape. Your other hand ghosted on his elbow for a moment as you held his wrapped hand in front of you, as if eyeing the neatness of your work in its entirety.

He blinked when you pinched the tip of his bandaged index finger, and then the next one and so on, pausing for each of them. If it took more than 3 seconds for their colors to return, he knew it meant that the hand circulation had been impaired and that you would have to redo the bandaging. They didn’t take more than one and you smiled.

He turned his hand in front of him, silently admiring your handiwork. “I take it this isn’t gonna heal overnight,” he suddenly wondered out loud even though he already knew the answer. “Not in a week even.”

Your smile gave way to a small laugh. “There’s no way. Give it about three weeks before you spike another volleyball. Your team will win today, that’s for sure, I’m sure the second day games tomorrow, as well. So, I’d sit this one out.” Your smile turned into something more private. “And Akaashi-kun’s gonna cry at the end of today’s match because that’s gonna be his last, and in his last ever piece for the school paper he’s gonna wax poetic over the last match point he remembers. This one…not the one at the Spring InterHigh. And then tomorrow Nekoma, the challengers, will be at your home court.”

He watched as you clumped the last discarded cotton away from the unused tape. Even the way you threw away scraps seemed like a slow process. You turned to regard him.

“Today might’ve been your last high school match ever, but really, you’ll have many, many more in the future…as long as you take care of yourself today, right?”

The first noteworthy thing this time was your omission of mentioning this match’s unofficial status, the fact that it’s essentially an exhibition match for the Tokyo schools, like an annual end-of-term celebration of sorts; nothing to take too seriously at all, nothing for any of them to risk injuring their hands over.

But then if he considered the surprising number of 3rd years from each school who could all afford to sit this one out to focus on more urgent and obviously more important post-high school preparation things, but were instead out there still fighting along like it’s the Nationals all over again, with no real win to gain and thriving possibly on sheer sentiment alone, then maybe it wasn’t such a noteworthy thing for you to consider their feelings too. Has it always been the norm to be this sentimental?

He was too tired to figure out the significance of this train of thought at the moment, so he simply looked at his hand, his spiking hand, his main arsenal that brought in all this glory…bandaged and temporarily out of commission. He didn’t answer you directly, but he raised his hand between the two of you, silently marveling at the sensible economy of it all; the clean, neatly-cut lines and well-tucked edges; the no-nonsense purity of its white, and his words were as good an answer as any:

“This is perfect,” he said, a rare smile on his face.

It just be like that sometimes, he thought. Things really do must end, sometimes quietly but also sometimes suddenly, leaving half-finished things to dwell in the dust and hearts broken with no real fanfare or prior warning. He found, though, that there’s also fulfillment in simply knowing that he’s given his best. If effort can be a measure of satisfaction, he thought, then he’s satisfied for today.

And you were right, there would be many, many more matches in the future. 

He quietly formed the question he’d been meaning to ask, and then frowned because it probably didn’t matter anymore, so why bother? But then again, why not?

“I never got to ask,” he began. “But tell me—“

Suddenly, the door flew open and almost crashed against the glass cabinet once again, this time revealing Motoya who managed to keep a firm grasp on the door knob and avoided stumbling into the floor headfirst. A plastic (and thankfully empty) container dropped from the top shelf but he was quick to catch it with one long arm. He muttered a _‘Yikes!,'_ taking one look at the door before turning to you both.

“Hi. I’m sorry about that,” he said as he started walking towards you with the container he didn’t know what to do with. You stood up to meet him halfway.

“Don’t worry about it, happens a lot today,” you reassured him as you took the plastic from his hand. “Nice receive, I guess,” you said, earning a sheepish grin from the tall boy.

“Ah, here you are.”

Kiyoomi stood up as well as it was time to go, looking at Motoya in anticipation without having to spell out his question. “So?”

He simply shrugged. “’Course we won.”

“I didn’t doubt that.”

“They caught up once you were gone of course, but only for a while.” He smiled, and then nodded at Kiyoomi’s neatly wrapped hand. “How is it?”

“Okay. It’ll get better.”

“I’ll bump enough serves for both of us tomorrow, don’t worry,” Motoya said in a proud, half-snarky way, because they both knew there wasn’t any reason to feel bad. Kiyoomi only scoffed good-naturedly.

“Make sure you do.”

The door swung open again but with not too much commotion this time and just enough to bring you out of the small room you had walked into. It was the girl from earlier. Before you could greet her and ask what was up, she was already right in front of you.

“They need you at the basketball court. Now.” She sounded both apologetic and tired at the same time.

“Oh, alright.”

As you walked towards the door you managed to squeeze in some parting instructions to the other girl while you’re gone, but before you could totally leave, you suddenly turned towards him.

“Ah, Sakusa-san—“ you began. “Three times a day, wash the area gently with soap and water, no antiseptics, just antibiotic, Megumi-san—“ at which you briefly turned to the other girl to say something he could only vaguely hear, something about a tube of ointment.

“I _will_ give him Neosporin, yes, that one, now go along... _teach him how to bandage,_ yes, okay!” the other girl only responded as she softly pushed you out. _‘And re-cover with a bandage!’_ you managed to say out loud before the door completely shut. And before he could form a sort of response or even comprehend, you were already gone.

He stared at his hand for a long time. He didn’t think he’d be needing anyone teaching him how to do the bandages anyway because he had watched you do it very closely. There was no longer the strange chill that he felt at the tip of his fingertips from earlier, even without the warmth that had cocooned them that somehow dulled the pain away.

He caught Motoya giving him that side-eye that told him he’s up to no good again. “What?”

“Man, you didn’t even get her name.”

Kiyoomi didn’t even dignify that with a verbal response but the annoyed expression on his face was much too obvious for Motoya not to laugh at.

“Hell,” he said, “did you even _thank_ her?”

*

*

*

*

It’s the sound of a car honk that stirs him out of his daydreaming, as he begins to perceive that he’s been standing on a small path towards a parking space. He holds up a hand as an apology as he walks forward, never taking his eyes off of you.

Kiyoomi has considered it his unfortunate luck to have been assigned in the same hotel room as Bokuto in their first away game for the season, which means having bus rides to and fro the stadium together, meal times almost, and warm-up schedules, too. But now he’s subscribed to a different idea: luck is neither bad nor good. It simply happens.

He had debated for just over a minute whether or not the figure across the road was familiar when Bokuto inquired what was wrong when, without getting an answer, he followed Kiyoomi’s gaze. And just like that he had zipped past the cars and a ten-wheeler truck to surprise you, wrapping you in a bear hug. Kiyoomi had watched the scene unfold in quiet amusement in spite of himself, and as he finally stands a few steps away from you, he’s suddenly at a loss as to what to say.

“Hey,” he calls out before he can even decide.

The two friends turn and it only takes about a second for the recognition to show on your face. Of course, you’d recognize him. You scrawled out his name in your hasty handwriting on a blank form on that day and you’ve probably watched at least one MSBY game if your congratulating of Bokuto—apparently a good friend—over their recent win right now isn’t proof enough. He finds it funny that he’s never not been uncomfortable with fame in his life or the fact that there’s always going to be way more people who know who he is than he’ll ever be aware of, but presently, he thinks if there’s one good thing that might come out of having his face plastered on the massive subway board-up of a major V. League event, then maybe it’s the possibility of you recognizing him somehow.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi.” Your expression slowly morphed into something more genial, something more familiar that makes him think of a long drawn-out conversation that gets picked up twenty years late as if it was only yesterday. He almost doesn’t catch the whistle out of Bokuto’s mouth as he listens to your wording of every syllable of his name; a certain singularity to it like a scrawny penmanship only he could read. He lowers his mask.

“You never told me your name.”

There is again that smile from nowhere and he finds himself responding with one of his own.

“You’re right, I was never able to.” You nodded in acknowledgement, but then you remember: “And you never mentioned how you got wounded in the first place.” To which he automatically narrows his eyes before slowly shaking his head in quiet remembrance.

He holds up his top condition, perfectly working right hand. “More importantly: thank you.”

You laugh. “It looks so much better now, thank god.” 

Bokuto can only stare at the two of you in confusion (and amazement) for a short while, trying to figure out what is up, but as he hears the conversation vaguely mention a quiet cafe down the street and an unsure time in the coming days, he finally steps in and rests his hands on your shoulders.

“Guys. Please don’t leave me out of this conversation, hey I wanna be in that cafe, too. Hey,” he begins to say, eyeing the friendly smiles and the familiar banter and Sakusa’s zero attempt at swatting his hand away. 

If he thought knowing your name is the one thing that’ll mark the completion of this several-years old conversation, then perhaps he’s wrong; because more than anything, this feels like a beginning of something Kiyoomi (possibly) wouldn’t want to end so soon.

**Author's Note:**

> \+ i miss sakusa kiyoomi. been more than a week now since haikyuu ended and from time to time i think of how we're never getting canon content of him anymore :(
> 
> \+ okay also i mentioned in my other fic before about a horror fic i'm working on, i have it parked at the moment hahaha work has gotten real busy lately but then writing has also gotten more fun. so!
> 
> \+ i will also forever be sad over the fact that we never got to see komori the no. 1 high school libero play. man's got the neatest eyebrows i genuinely love him so much. someday i'll write a sakusa/komori cousins crackfic and i'm gonna be so happy
> 
> \+ thanks for reading! leave a comment or say hi ❤️


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